


Unwavering

by adanedhel



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M, Sex in the woods, if you or a loved one struggles with erectile dysfunction, tfw youre trying to write something loving and tender and then suddenly its rimming, well finrod can fix that, yall know how it be with elves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-05
Updated: 2020-02-05
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:08:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,766
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22568359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adanedhel/pseuds/adanedhel
Summary: It is the nature of the Edain to grow bored. This is a cause for worry for Finrod. Bëor, his man, has been by his side for some time, and he worries this is the reason for their steady decline in intimacy.
Relationships: Bëor the Old/Finrod Felagund | Findaráto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 50





	Unwavering

**Author's Note:**

> sorry the pov kind of switches half-way through, i have no idea what im doing! im just trying to create the content i want to see in the world.

It is the nature of the Edain to grow _bored._ Perhaps due to their brevity, or perhaps it is just that they see all things Differently than the Eldar. They look upon all things with eyes that are not here, nor there it seems. All too easily impressed, and in the same turn all too easily wearied. _Too often seen is seen no longer_ , they say. Things grow stale, stagnant; they are no longer new, and so no longer interesting. Whatever the cause, Men are always seeking things that are new, things that are ever-changing like themselves.

This is a cause for worry for Finrod. Bëor, _his_ man, has been by his side for some time, and he worries this is the reason for their steady decline in intimacy. Finrod is forever young, a flower never to wither or to wane. Bëor, however, has aged. Every day Finrod looks him over, adoring, committing to memory the new face every day brings. Every time he looks at him he sees his Balan, and he does not. Every day he is new. A new grey hair, and new fine line, a new freckle, a new scar. _Always,_ he is new. Finrod will remember his thousand different faces for the rest of his life. He will have an eternity’s worth of different _Bëors,_ each to remember with the same fondness.

But all Bëor has is this one Finrod. Surely, by now, he has grown dull. There is no part of him Bëor does not know, no piece of him left to discover. In their first years together, they were always discovering one another. Learning each other for the first time. It was fun, it was interesting, and they both had much to offer. Balan still had much to offer this way, but Finrod did not. He must be old news. Perhaps, despite his love, despite all else he offers, Bëor no longer desires him.

  
  


“My love…” Finrod touched Balan on the arm gently, stopping him. They were being hosted by Bëor’s son, Baran, as they were visiting the Edain village, but they had excused themselves for a walk. Most evenings they would walk around the city, or even occasionally in the forests surrounding it, but never was it so truly secluded as this. Always there were guards and scouts and people about. Now it was just them, and the trees. Finrod knew not why, but he was stricken with the need to share his fears in that moment. To confirm them, and let this between them end gently, or to put them at once to rest.

“What is it?” Balan leaned on his walking stick, and cocked his head. He could tell something was off, Finrod was never nervous. What had he to be nervous about? But his body language was clear. Biting his lip, wringing his hands, avoiding eye contact, “What bothers you, my dear?”

Finrod took a deep breath, “It is… It is nothing, after all. I apologize for worrying you. Let us, ah, return before the sun is gone.” He shook his head, and took Bëor by the arm, making to guide him back.

“No, it is not nothing.” He stayed rooted firmly in place. Despite his use of a staff, he was not _so_ weak, “I know you, Nóm, and this is not nothing. Tell me, what wrongs you?”

“Indeed, you know me well.” Finrod sighed, and sat down on a fallen log, “Too well, I fear. What more of me is there to know? I have shared everything with you, body and heart, and there is nothing left to share.” He rested his chin on his fist, and made a dramatic pout that, if Balan did _not_ know him so well after all, he would have said was for show.

“And why is this cause for grief? I am glad to know you. Blessed, even, that not only should I know you as a friend, but as we are. That I should have the pleasure to know you as a lover, inside and out.” He sat down next to Finrod, and placed a hand on his knee, who flushed under the touch.

He turned his eyes on Balan, wide and glittering in the twilight, and sighed again. “Perhaps you know me _inside_ too well, for it has become a bore to you.” He moved his hand to rest on top of his lover’s, “So little do you wish to explore it as of late.” Balan, now, flushed under the elf’s piercing gaze, and could not hold it.

“You feel… neglected? In bedroom matters? Is that what all this grief is over?” A gentle smile came over him, and he laughed. “Nóm I may call you, but foolish you often seem. Whatever you desire of me, you must only ask.” An equally gentle hand held Finrod’s chin, and Bëor kissed him, soft and loving in the grey light.

“But you, I, but…” Finrod protested, “If you do not desire me, I would not have you feign it for my pleasure.”

Balan paused, and gave him a deeply puzzled look. “Of course I desire you. My Nóm, you are nothing but desirable. How could you even think I would not want you, beauty as you are?”

“You do not show it.” Finrod frowned, and shuffled his feet, “In our earlier years, I could not keep your hands off me. I fear that I have become boring to you. You are ever and always changing, as one of your kind, and I fear that you tire of me, who is always the same. A-And I fear, too, that as your desire wanes, so does your love.” He turned his eyes down, and fidgeted with his hands again, “I have only so much time with you, I would not that you leave me any sooner than you must…”

Bëor was quiet for a few moments, before reaching out and taking Finrod’s face in his hand again, turning him until their eyes met. “My love, I am sorry if I have made you feel like you are anything less to me than you are. I love little more than I love you. The same, perhaps, as I love my sons. As my late wife, but even so, I would not trade you for her.” He kissed Finrod on the forehead, “I would not trade you for anything, I would not leave you for anything.”

Finrod felt his eyes well with tears, and could not keep them from spilling. He leaned into Balan, who wrapped his arms around Finrod, pulling him tight to his chest. “I am sorry for any pain I have caused you. You must understand, though, I am not who I was in earlier years. I think less with my body, and more with my heart. Many men my age would give anything to have a wife as seemingly-young and fair as you. Even so, I am now fully grey. I am not hale and hardy as I was in those times. My body may sometimes… fail, in those conditions.” He was glad that Finrod’s face was pressed into his shoulder, for it was an embarrassing thing to admit. His face flushed deeper as he felt Finrod shaking against him with gentle laughter. At first silent, then bubbling out of him in bright peals.

“Tell me, my lover, that I have worried for naught, all because you struggle to stay upright!” He pulled back just enough to press their foreheads together, eyes gleaming with love as Balan flushed even more, and floundered for words, “Oh, but dear, I do not laugh at you! Simply at myself, for causing such unnecessary strife over such a small thing.” He shook his head and kissed Balan’s lips. “Grey you may be, but I know with the right encouragement you will still _rise_ to the occasion.”

Finrod gave him a mischievous smirk, that already sent a tingle down his spine, but before he could get a word out he was on his back! Finrod knocked him off the log, and was leaning over him, holding his shoulders to the ground. “That is a point for me.” So, he wanted to wrestle. Bëor shook his head and began to laugh, Nóm truly did never change, but at the same time, he would never ask him to.

As much as Finrod wanted to prove he wasn’t as old as he thought, Bëor knew he would never win this fight. Not if he played clean. His hands wandered up the thighs that straddled him, and came to rest on Finrod’s behind, copping a tight squeeze, and making his elf puff out a delighted gasp. This was enough of a distraction for him to flip Finrod over solidly onto his back this time.

“Point for _me_.” Balan smirked and kissed the tip of Finrod’s nose, who was biting back his own grin.

The grappled, and rolled through the dirt and the leaves, laughing as they played as unfair as they could help. A kiss on the neck, a bite on the ear, a firm squeeze here and there, and soon they were no longer keeping score of points, but simply going for excuses to tease and feel each other up. Exactly how Finrod had planned this wrestling match to go, and Balan knew.

Finrod again was on top, Bëor’s wrists clamped firmly into one of his hands, his lovely long fingers having no trouble grasping them both at the same time as his other hand roamed Bëor’s chest. He rolled his hips down against his lover, and his laughter was soft and breathy. “Seems to me as though you are yet hale and _hardy_ as ever, my love.” He snickered and nuzzled into the crook of Balan’s neck, nibbling and teasing at the skin.

Bëor was a little winded from their game, and was huffing as he craned his neck to the side to allow his lover more skin. He no longer had the will in him to fight, for his breathing was roughened not only from their play, but his straining arousal as well. He canted his hips upwards, to grind against Finrod, but raised himself out of reach.

“Ah, ah.” He licked a stripe from the crook of Bëor’s neck to his ear, “You withheld from me for your reasons, now it is my turn.” He nibbled the earlobe, and sucked at it briefly before running his tongue along the outer shell, breathing hotly onto it as he did.

He tangled his legs around Balan’s, holding him firmly down as his mouth explored. Once he’d had his fill of the ear, it was down the neck, across the throat, and back up to the other ear, to have his fun with it as well. He drank in his lover’s sounds, panting out his own pleasure in response to the deep grunts and whines that he elicited. Finrod’s hand, all the while, slipped under Bëor’s shirt and fondled the wide chest. Gripping and twirling his fingers in the chest hair, pulling and pinching at the pert brown nipples he found. Unrelenting, he teased and tortured his love until he, himself was unable to stand it.

He loosed his grip on Balan’s wrists just enough, and before he could blink he was underneath again, and his lover completely covered him. “Oh, Oh my love…” Finrod whined out as Bëor rolled his hips down into him, straining their erections together through too many layers of clothes. Bëor’s head was nuzzling into the crook of his neck now, biting and kissing and _definitely_ leaving marks, but Finrod wanted them. He would not be embarrassed for people to see how much his lover wanted him. In fact, he would be pleased.

Balan pulled himself back only to yank away Finrod’s pants, and scrunch his tunic up under his armpits. He lifted Finrod’s hips, anchoring his legs over his shoulders, and pulled his cheeks apart, bending down in and giving a soft kiss to Finrod’s inner thigh, and looking up for assent. “ _Please, oh,_ my Bëor, have me.” Finrod gripped his hands into Balan’s silver hair as he raised his hips higher for his lover.

He did not need to be told twice, and waited not a second before he nuzzled into the cheeks, his beard tickling Finrod in a way that set his skin afire, and made his member twitch. Balan kissed, and _bit_ his cheeks before dragging his tongue holty up the cleft, to probe at his hole. Oh, the marks he would have would be lovely.

“Mmh, my love, how can you be so beautiful, even here.” Balan mumbled between breaths, “How I could eat your pretty hole for hours.” Finrod’s fingers tightened in his hair and he moaned as Balan’s tongue went from simply massaging him, to pressing through, inside of him. It had been a long time since Bëor had performed this sort of act on him, he almost wished it would last for hours if not for the searing-white desire for more that burned in his gut. Bëor would deserve the sore jaw for making him wait so long, but perhaps next time.

Try as he might to stay still, Finrod was wiggling under Balan’s hold, his toes curled where they sat on his shoulders and he could not help from pushing himself against his lover’s face trying to get _more_ . He had half a mind to hush the elf, lest someone come looking. They were not terribly far from the town, but then again Balan would rather have someone hear at a safe distance and turn back rather than stumble upon them deep in the act. Aside, his whines and moans were nothing he would want to stop hearing. An endless stream of babble, of _oh_ and _please_ and _Bëor, my love_. He could listen to this for the rest of his life and be content.

When he brought his hand to stroke Finrod in time with the lave of his tongue, the feet on his shoulders pushed him back, and Finrod cried out “Ah! I’m sorry, I cannot take it. Inside me, now, please.” Finrod grabbed behind each of his knees, and pulled his legs up obscenely. Bëor sat back for a moment and simply appreciated the view. How disheveled and delicious his lover looked before him.

No one else had ever seen him so, and none ever would. The sight of him with his legs pried open, his cheeks (above and below) stained a beautiful rose, along with his heaving, nibbled-up chest. His cock standing tall and dripping in the starlight that was now fully upon them. This was indeed a sight that would get him aroused no matter how old and tired he became. The thought saddened him, also. Finrod so wanton and begging after just a few months since the last time they laid together. How would he last eternity once Bëor was gone?

“Please, do not make me wait another second.” Finrod shifted so that he was holding his cheeks apart, a pleading look in his half-lidded eyes. Balan pushed those thoughts away for another time. Now he was here, and his lover needed him.

“I-I’m sorry, my love, I had not the thought before, I do not have--”

“Your spit is enough. I am not fragile, I will not break.” Finrod cut him off, voice breathless and wanting, “Please, I am done waiting. I will have you, my Bëor.” Balan just nodded, pulling his pants down to his knees, and spit into his hand, giving himself a few swift tugs, and nearly whiting out from the pleasure. He had almost forgotten that he was yet to even be touched, focused as he was on his lover. He took another moment of pause to compose himself, and lined up against Finrod.

He went to look into Finrod’s eyes again for permission, but they screwed shut as he found himself suddenly fully enveloped inside his elf. Finrod wrapped his legs around Bëor’s hips and pulled him firmly inside in one quick motion. He wanted to open his mouth and check that Finrod was okay, but all that came out was a low moan, and he heaved breaths as he willed himself not to come immediately.

How he ever thought he’d be unable to perform, he had no idea. Finrod’s body was a pleasure that could never fail to arouse him. If he struggled to stay hard in his own hand, it must only be because anything would fall utterly short of the bliss of being inside this perfect body. Once he had a decent composure on himself, he pulled himself nearly out, and snapped his hips back inside, earning a wonderful, pleasurable scream from Finrod.

He went slow as he was able, hard, deep thrusts that shook Finrod’s entire body and sent him to throw his head back against the ground, his golden hair a halo about him. He would draw this out for him, as much as he could. If he went faster, anyway, he knew he would come too soon, and neither of them wished for that. Finrod was pinned underneath him, like a butterfly to a board. Bent utterly in half with his legs hooked over Balan’s shoulders, knees pushed up to his own. He grabbed at Balan wherever he could find purchase, his arms, his hair, even grasping flat at his back and leaving marks from his fingernails as he gripped as though for his life, screaming out his pleasure the while.

Bëor hushed him with his lips, kissing him deep and wet and messy. He feared if the people in town caught wind of this screaming they’d come looking out of fear he was being attacked. The only assault here though was the steady drive of Bëor’s cock into his lord, and this was not how he would wish to be found. So he sealed Finrod’s lips with his own, muffling but not silencing the moans and shouts that issued from them.

Finrod pulled his mouth free, simply to beg, “Please, my love, my Balan, more…” Before his lips were captured again, but he was heard, and obeyed. Bëor adjusted himself for a better angle, and set into nailing his elf into the forest floor. Hard and fast and unrelenting, higher and higher sounds bubbled out of Finrod until his mouth was hanging open silent, panting. It was all he could do to focus on keeping the breath inside of him as Bëor pushed into him again and again.

This would not last, Bëor knew, his adrenaline would wear off and his body would catch up with him, so he reached between them, stroking Finrod as steadily as he could while he fucked him. Finrod had such a tight hold on his hair that it was painful, gripping him right at his scalp, but nothing could stop him now from chasing down their pleasure together. Finrod pushed his face into Balan’s neck, and started moaning again, high and breathless.

“Yes, oh, my love. Come for me, yes…” Balan whispered to him, equally or more out of breath as he exerted himself, hips never once giving up their pace. His grip on Finrod’s cock tightened and he jerked him with all the speed he had.

Finrod let out a choked back, utterly filthy sound as he came, his entire body shaking with the force. His whole body tightened in that moment, and the pressure on Bëor’s cock instantly had him coming as well, spilling inside of Finrod as he slowed his pace to a gentle roll, milking himself out.

For almost a full minute, they lay together in orgasmic bliss, shuddering through with an impossibly tight hold on each other. When Finrod finally released his grip on Balan’s hair he nearly collapsed down on top of him, not realizing how much the hold was keeping him up. He laid himself down gently, pulling out of Finrod and resting his head on his still-heaving chest.

“Oh, my Bëor…” Finrod finally panted out, running his fingers apologetically through his bright silver hair, “If a few months is what I must wait for you to lay me like that again, I will gladly wait it.” He chuckled and kissed the top of Bëor’s head.

“No, Nóm, I have been a poor lover to neglect your needs. I will give it to you like that as often as I can, if that is what you want of me.” He took a few deep breaths, “Though, there will be a recovery period, I fear. You have shaved a few years off me with your enthusiasm, but I will surely be sore after all of that.” He laughed himself, and sat up.

Finrod followed him up into a sitting position, and kissed him, “I will surely be sore as well.” He pressed their foreheads together, “But my love, no, I would not ask you so. Not often, anyway. I was merely overcome with joy, and desire, and…” He sighed, smiling, “I love you.”

“I love you, too.” Balan kissed him again. Slow and smooth, none of the desperation and desire from before. The only desire was to be close, and show their love and devotion to one another. “We should clean up and get back. The night is getting on now, and they must wonder at our return.” He shifted to pull his pants up, and wrinkled his nose at Finrod’s state. He was… covered in their mingled seed. His front painted white from his own spend, and his backside dripping onto the grass. “I fear when they see us, they may guess what we have been up to.” He frowned.

Finrod laughed, and reached for his discarded pants, using them to wipe himself clean. “Excuse my volume, for they may already know.” He couldn’t even pretend to be ashamed. “Clearly as you have marked me, they would have guessed should I have been silent and returned in the shape I departed.” He stashed his soiled pants in a bush and shrugged, standing.

His tunic came down to his knees, so it was not obscene to look on, but still. Marks or not, there was something unbecoming of an Elvenking about returning without the pants he left wearing. He began running his fingers through his hair, picking out leaves and other debris as he did so.

Balan laughed, and shook his head, there really was nothing he would change about this elf. His wise old fool. He could never tire of this.

“Come here, and let me help at least.”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading!! any and all feedback is appreciated of course 🖤
> 
> you can find me on tumblr too! https://adanedhel.tumblr.com/


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